On the first mud moon of each mud month, the blobs would make an extra-massive, extra-muddy mud pie for the bog toad. In return for the pie, the bog toad did not suck up all their mud.
On the night of the most recent mud moon, however, a terrible thing happened. All the blobs had left the pie out for the bog toad, as usual, and then went to sleep in the mud, except for one blob that remained on duty to guard the pie.
It was the blob’s first time on pie-guarding duty and, as the hours dragged on, it became very hungry. The extra-massive, extra-muddy mud pie looked so good shining in the moonlight that the blob couldn’t resist eating just a tiny bit.
The mud pie tasted every bit as good as it looked! Crunchy on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside. In fact, it tasted so good, the blob decided to have just a tiny bit more …
and then another tiny bit more …
and then another and another tiny bit more …
and then another and another and another tiny bit more … until there was nothing left of the mud pie but a few muddy crumbs.
The blob was ashamed of what it had done, but there was no time to confess and ask the rest of the blobs to help make another mud pie because, at that moment, the great mud-sucking bog toad appeared!
The bog toad looked around for the mud pie but, of course, it couldn’t see it because it was in the blob’s stomach.
The bog toad let out a loud and angry croak. It wanted mud pie, but there was no mud pie! In a fit of rage, the bog toad opened its great greedy mouth and began sucking up all the mud—and all the blobs with it!
The bog toad kept sucking until it had sucked up all the mud and all the blobs.
‘All the blobs?’ said Jill. ‘Even the blob that ate the pie?’
‘Well, no,’ said the blob. ‘All the blobs except the blob that ate the pie.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Terry, ‘if there was only one blob left and you’re telling the story, then does that mean you are the blob that ate the mud pie?’
‘Yes,’ said the blob, ‘I’m sorry to say that I am.’
‘I knew it!’ said Terry.
‘But how did you end up on Eyeballia?’ I said.
‘Well,’ said the blob, ‘just after the bog toad had sucked up all the blobs—before I could do anything to save them—I was abducted by a giant flying eyeball and taken to Eyeballia to fight in the intergalactic death battle.’
‘That’s exactly like what happened to us!’ said Terry. ‘Well, not the bit about the bog toad and the mud and the pie, but we were abducted by a giant flying eyeball, too.’
‘Those eyeballs sure have a nerve,’ said Jill. ‘How dare they fly around the universe abducting whoever they like for their horrible intergalactic death battles! I’m so glad we got away from them.’
‘Don’t speak too soon,’ I said. ‘Look! They’re coming after us!’
‘Yikes!’ said Terry. ‘Can’t this tree go any faster?’
‘I don’t think the speed of the tree is the real problem here,’ said Jill. ‘Or the fact that we’re being chased by a bunch of angry eyeballs. The real problem is that we’re headed straight towards that sun!’
‘Oh no!’ said Terry. ‘We’re doomed!’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But then again, maybe not.’
‘How do you figure that?’ said Jill.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve just done a few quick calculations and it would appear that, based on our current speed and trajectory, our tree is going to narrowly miss that sun, whereas the eyeballs are travelling much faster and will not be able to change course in time. They’ll burn up long before they’re able to catch us.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ said Jill.
‘I am,’ I said. ‘Look out there if you don’t believe me.’
Just as I had predicted, the eyeballs began bursting into flames.
CHAPTER 9
FLAMING EYEBALLS
‘FLAMING EYEBALLS!’ yelled Terry. ‘You were right, Andy—they’re burning up!’
‘Those poor eyeballs,’ said Jill.
‘Are you kidding?’ I said. ‘Those poor eyeballs were happy to see us fight each other to the death just for their amusement.’
‘I know,’ said Jill. ‘But I don’t like seeing any living creatures suffer—no matter how mean they are.’
‘That worked out pretty well,’ said Terry after the last of the eyeballs had flamed out of view. ‘We defeated the giant flying eyeballs, and have put an end to their intergalactic death battles forever. The aliens of the universe can now live in peace, free from the fear of being abducted by eyeballs, and it’s all thanks to us!’
‘There’s just one small problem,’ said Jill, wiping sweat from her brow. ‘Well, one big problem, really. We seem to be getting awfully close to the sun ourselves. Are you sure your calculations are correct, Andy?’
‘Of course I am,’ I said. ‘But you can check them if you want.’
Terry took the page from my hand and examined it. ‘These aren’t calculations,’ he said. ‘It’s just scribble!’
‘No, it’s not,’ I said. ‘It just seems like that to you because you don’t understand astrology. My calculations are far beyond your comprehension.’
‘No, they’re not,’ said Terry.
‘Yes, they are,’ I said.
‘They’re NOT!’
‘They ARE!’
‘NOT!’
‘ARE!’
‘NOT!’
‘ARE!’
As you can see, I was easily winning the argument—well, that was until we got so close to the sun that the page of calculations started smoking and then caught fire in Terry’s hand. ‘Ouch!’ he said as he dropped it and stamped out the flames.
‘It’s getting really hot!’ said Jill. ‘I feel like I’m melting—in fact, I think I am melting!’
‘Me too,’ said Terry. ‘My legs have gone all soft.’
I was starting to melt, too. I mean, it was hot! And when I say ‘it was hot’, I mean it was REALLY hot. And when I say ‘it was REALLY hot’, I mean it was REALLY REALLY hot! But just when we thought we couldn’t take it any more, we didn’t have to … because, suddenly, the treehouse was covered in shade—cool, dark shade.
‘I didn’t know the treehouse had an emergency sun umbrella,’ said Jill.
‘Neither did I,’ said Terry. ‘Did you put it in, Andy?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Then where’s all that shade coming from?’ said Jill.
‘It’s the blob!’ said Terry. ‘It’s turned itself into a giant sun umbrella and it’s shading the entire tree!’
‘Thank you, Blob!’ I shouted.
THE DAY THE BLOB TURNED ITSELF INTO A GIANT SUN UMBRELLA AND SAVED US ALL FROM BURNING UP.
As it turned out, my calculations were right: we didn’t actually fly into the sun—but we did go very close. If it hadn’t been for the blob, we wouldn’t have survived.
The poor blob, however, was in a bad way. It fell back down into the treehouse, exhausted. It was completely dried up and cracked, like a lump of plasticine that’s been left out of its container for too long.
‘We need to get this blob rehydrated at once,’ said Dr Moose.
(You might remember Dr Moose from our last book, The 117-Storey Treehouse. He writes books, too, but he’s also a doctor. He liked our treehouse so much that he decided to stay on as our chief medical officer.)
Dr Moose put the blob in a bed and attached it to a saline drip.
We all crowded around.
‘Do you think it will be all right, Doctor?’ said Jill.
‘It’s hard to say,’ said Dr Moose. ‘Its vital signs are not good. Flexibility is poor, breathing is shallow and it’s very close to completely cracking up. It also has the worst case of sunburn I’ve ever seen.’
The little blob opened its eyes and looked up at us.
‘Did we make it past the sun?’ it said weakly.
‘Yes,’ said Jill. ‘Thanks to you! You’r
e a hero. You saved us all from burning up.’
‘Thank goodness,’ said the blob in a rasping voice. ‘I’m glad everybody’s okay, but I’m afraid it’s all over for me. I’m all dried up. Now I’ll never get back to Blobdromeda to put things right and save my friends and family from the belly of the mud-sucking bog toad.’
‘Maybe we could save them for you,’ said Terry.
‘Would you really do that?’ said the blob.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It’s the least we could do after what you’ve done for us. I just wish we could save you, too.’
‘Never mind about me,’ whispered the blob. ‘I’m just one blob—and a bad one at that—but it gives me great comfort to know that everybody on Blobdromeda will soon be free to sing and wallow in the mud again and, Blob willing, will do so forever more.’
The blob closed its eyes.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Where exactly is Blobdromeda?’
The blob took a big breath and said, ‘Blobdromeda is in the eighth dimension … of the fourth quadrant … near the twenty-fifth sector … of the ninety-third nebula … of the eighth arm of the twenty-second supercluster—you can’t miss it.’
The blob fell back onto the pillow and then, exhausted, cracked into pieces and crumbled into dust.
‘I’m afraid it’s all over for this little blob,’ said Dr Moose. He gently gathered the blob’s remains, placed them in a shoebox and handed it to Terry.
We carried the shoebox to the beautiful sunny meadow, where Edward Scooperhands helped us to scoop out a shallow grave.
We lowered the shoebox into it, and I recited a short poem in the blob’s honour.
‘I didn’t know the blob for long,’ said Jill, wiping away tears, ‘but I’ll really miss it. Sure, it shouldn’t have eaten that mud pie, but it had a good heart. I hope we can help all its friends and family on Blobdromeda.’
‘Of course we will,’ I said. ‘And the sooner we get there, the sooner we can set those blobs free.’
‘Let’s go!’ said Terry. ‘To Blobdromeda and beyond!’
‘Actually, not beyond,’ I corrected him. ‘We just want to get to Blobdromeda.’
‘Got it!’ said Terry. ‘To Blobdromeda—AND NO FURTHER!’
CHAPTER 10
BLOBDROMEDA
We travelled through the eighth dimension of the fourth quadrant …
past the twenty-fifth sector of the ninety-third nebula of the eighth arm of the twenty-second supercluster …
and there was Blobdromeda, right where the little blob said it would be!
‘We made it!’ said Terry.
The surface of Blobdromeda looked pretty rocky, and it appeared we were in for a rough landing, so we decided to take shelter in the room full of pillows.
We had only just arrived in the room full of pillows when Terry said what he always says when we go there: ‘Hey, I’ve got a good idea—let’s have a pillow fight!’
‘No way,’ I said. ‘This may be the place but it’s hardly the time. We’re on a mission—all those blobs trapped in the bog toad are depending on us!’
‘You’re right, Andy,’ said Terry. ‘This is no time for games.’ And then he whomped me with a pillow.
So I whomped him back.
Jill whomped us both—
and the great intergalactic pillow fight was on!
The pillow fight was still raging as we landed on Blobdromeda’s boulder-strewn surface.
‘Everyone okay?’ I said.
‘I’m fine,’ said Terry, emerging from underneath a pile of pillows.
‘Me too,’ said Jill. ‘But that was some jolt!’
‘Can anybody see the bog toad?’ said Terry.
‘No,’ said Jill, ‘but I can smell it. In fact, we’re right on top of it.’
‘Yikes!’ said Terry. ‘We’re on top of a bog toad!’
‘Yes,’ said Jill. ‘And, unless I’m very much mistaken, those rocks and boulders aren’t rocks and boulders—they’re bog toad warts.’
‘Bog toad warts?’ I said. ‘How disgusting!’
‘Look on the bright side,’ said Jill. ‘At least we’re on the outside of this bog toad and not on the inside like those poor blobs.’
We climbed down off the bog toad, which was surprisingly easy, because although the bog toad warts were disgusting, they also made excellent foot- and handholds.
‘That was fun,’ said Terry when we reached the ground. ‘We should build a wart-climbing wall in our treehouse.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But where would we get the warts from?’
‘We can make them in our secret underground laboratory,’ said Terry.
‘Of course,’ I said.
We walked around to the front of the bog toad and stared at it.
It stared back at us.
We stared back at the bog toad.
‘Anyone know how to get blobs out of a bog toad?’ I said.
‘We need to make it open its mouth,’ said Jill. ‘Perhaps we could try making it laugh. Does anybody know any good bog toad jokes?’
‘I know one,’ said Terry, turning to the bog toad. ‘Hey, you, bog toad, do you want to hear a joke?’
The bog toad just stared at him.
‘All right, then,’ said Terry, ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
The bog toad blinked.
Terry began: ‘A person was at the movies when they noticed what looked like a bog toad sitting next to them. “Excuse me,” said the person, “are you a bog toad?”
‘“Yes, I am,” said the bog toad.
‘“What are you doing at the movies?” said the person.
‘“Well,” said the bog toad, “I liked the book.”’
We all laughed. Well, all of us except for the bog toad. It just stared at Terry.
Terry turned to us. ‘I don’t understand why it’s not laughing,’ he said. ‘That’s a really funny joke.’
‘Maybe it doesn’t know what a movie is,’ said Jill.
‘Maybe it doesn’t know what a book is,’ I said.
‘Or maybe bog toads just don’t have a sense of humour,’ said Terry.
‘Are bog toads ticklish?’ I said.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Jill. ‘But there’s a good way to find out. Let’s tickle it. Ready, set, go!’
We team-tickled the bog toad with everything we had—our fingers, feathers, feather dusters, an electric toothbrush and even a vacuum cleaner …
but nothing worked. The bog toad didn’t even smile, let alone open its mouth to laugh.
‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘I think we can safely conclude that this bog toad does not have a sense of humour and is not ticklish. Unless we can think of some other way to make it open its mouth, the blobs are doomed!’
Just then I heard a buzzing sound. A really annoying buzzing sound.
The fly was back! And it was even louder and more annoying than it was before!
‘Who let that fly out?’ I said.
‘I did,’ said Jill. ‘I thought it could help.’
‘Help?’ I said. ‘It’s not going to help—it’s just going to fly around and annoy us all!’
‘Exactly!’ said Jill. ‘I’m hoping it’s going to annoy the bog toad as well.’
The fly buzzed dangerously close to the bog toad’s head. It was hard to tell if the bog toad was getting annoyed or not, but it was definitely watching the fly with great interest.
The fly kept buzzing. The bog toad kept watching.
Until, suddenly, without warning, the bog toad launched itself into the air and tried to catch the fly.
As the bog toad opened its mouth to swallow the fly, all the mud that it had sucked up came gushing out in a great brown wave.
We didn’t stand a chance. We were swept away in the great flood of mud—never to be seen again.
CHAPTER 11
MUD, GLORIOUS MUD!
Actually, when I say ‘never to be seen again’, what I really mean is ‘never to be seen again until we struggled our way back
up to the surface’—I was just trying to make it sound more exciting.
We were lost in a vast ocean of mud. For as far as we could see, there was nothing but mud: mud, mud, mud, mud, mud and … more mud.
But then, in the distance, we saw a tree—and not just any tree. It was our tree!
‘There’s our tree!’ said Terry. ‘It’s come to save us!’
‘Help us!’ shouted Jill. ‘We’re over here!’
We tried to swim towards it, but it was too difficult—the mud was so thick, we could barely move.
The 130-Storey Treehouse Page 3